


Laudanum for the Soul

by RedTeamShark



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Agender Character, Alcohol, Body Horror, Character Death, Gen, Gore, Grief and Loss, Original Character Names, Revenge, RvB Big Bang, Trans Male Character (Minor Character), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9563522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: Between Spiral and Chorus, Sharkface sought revenge for their family.-RvB Big Bang fic.





	1. Family

**Author's Note:**

> My first Big Bang and boy, it was a doozy. Art by the lovely [zhekiel](http://zhekiel.deviantart.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the lovely [zhekiel](http://zhekiel.deviantart.com/) is [here](http://sta.sh/022s3u06o4h)! It lines up with part 2 of this chapter, _Angel on My Shoulder_.

 

生與死是一個線程，從不同的角度觀察同一行

\- 老子

* * *

 

 

> ###  **i. Spiral**

"We need to go, _now_."

"No one is getting left behind."

"If we don't evac to medical right now, you're going to lose TWO soldiers today--"

"Then you leave. Get him to medical, and we'll catch up."

The pilot took a step back, eyes narrowing. "What are you hoping you'll find?"

"The missing member of my team..." Finally, his searching eyes turned away from the rubble, landed on the pilot and narrowed. "You do what you have to; I'll do what I have to."

"Hargrove isn't going to like this."

"I'll de--" A shout from the searchers, shock then hope.

"Over... over here! I think I found them!"

Reis looked the pilot up and down once more, nodding. "Five minutes."

"Fine. Five minutes. I'll radio medical that we have two inbound." There was a second sentence, spoken under the pilot’s breath, but Reis didn’t bother with it. He had a team to evac. Ellis was in rough shape but at least he was getting on the ground medical attention after the collapse. He’d been easy to find.

“Mobile team, status report,” Reis ordered, working his way through the rubble to where the searchers were gathered. They were pulling away large chunks of debris, most of it glowing in the grey of the post-sunset. Probably radioactive.

“Injuries minimal, sir,” Naomi’s voice on the radio, sounding slightly winded and mostly annoyed. “We hit them hard but they got what they came for.”

“Not what I needed to hear, Girlie. We’ll deal with it soon, evac to medical facility…” A quick mental map of the area played out in Reis’ head, “ _Angel on My Shoulder_. We’ve got two major injuries down here.”

“Two…? Who is it?”

Reis leaned down over his soldier, frowning at the wreck that used to be a member of his team. Shattered faceplate, crushed armor… some sort of ichor dripping from their eye—or rather, where their eye had been. “Ellis was at the epicenter of the fucking… space laser. And… Sharkface was still inside.”

A hiss of breath over his comms, but when she spoke Naomi’s voice was as level as ever. “Acknowledged, rendezvous for medical treatment at _Angel on My Shoulder_. I’ll see you there, sir.”

The chopper lowering in drowned out Naomi’s out, and Reis clicked his comms off, getting in and helping load the battered body onto the hovering bird. The waiting medical team took over almost immediately, hooking up equipment and frowning. “Zero on the pulse.”

“Give them a minute.”

“Sir we don’t know how long their heart hasn’t been—“

“Give them a minute,” Reis repeated, each word holding its own weight. The medics busied themselves with trying to assess the body as if it wasn’t physically dead, calling out injuries, punctuated with the continued zeroes. Zero heartrate, zero-over-zero blood pressure. Reis crossed his arms, watching.

When Sharkface sat up and gasped in a breath, some of the medics actually screamed. The heart monitor beeped into life, recording a steady rate of seventy-five.

“Knew you had it in you, Shark. Get some rest.” They turned, looking at Reis with what remained of their ruined face. One short nod before they fell back to the stretcher, breathing evening out as they slept. A medic approached hesitantly, syringe in her hand. “What’s that?”

“Morphine, sir. To help the pain.”

Reis shook his head. “They won’t need it.”

 

 

 

> ###  **ii. _Angel on My Shoulder_**

Purgatory.

They’ve been here before.

Purgatory.

The slow hum of electronics. The soft sound of voices from another room.

Purgatory.

With effort, Sharkface opened their eyes. It took a moment for things to become clear, to focus from a blur to white ceiling tiles and bright fluorescents.

The endless, waiting purgatory of a hospital room.

“Hey,” a voice called softly from their left and with an effort they turned, seeing Reis and pulling their face into a smile. “How you feeling?”

“Like death.”

“Makes sense, you did die for a bit before we got you evac’d.”

“Oh. Cool.” They wiggled their fingers, then their toes. No permanent damages? Impressive. “How are the others?”

Reis shook his head, unseen in Sharkface’s now limited peripheral vision. “We’re all still here. A little battered and bruised, but we’re here.”

“How bad was it?” They waited for the answer, eyes on the ceiling, trying to puzzle out what was different about this. It was something… Something they should have seen…

“We lost the Sarcophagus, we lost the case with the code, Rhee Sebiel is dead… Hargrove is pissed.” Reis leaned in, noticing Sharkface’s frown. “You’re up for a minimum of six months physical therapy. Ellis will be in with you for the first two weeks. He… Well, you remember that old movie, _Terminator_?”

“Reis, how bad is it?”

“They had to amputate his left arm below the elbow, replace it with a cybernetic. He’s getting the hang of it already, though… Just has some new scars.” Reis ran a hand through his hair, looking Sharkface up and down slowly. “You… you’re not that hurt, externally. But your entire right femur was basically dust, your left arm suffered an… internal amputation at the shoulder. And…” That Reis was hesitant to tell them spoke volumes.

“Let me see.”

“Shark—“

“ _Show me_.” They used their right arm to push themselves up slightly, turning to face their leader and narrowing their eyes. “I know you have a mirror somewhere.”

Reluctantly, Reis produced the small mirror from beside the bed, holding it up for Sharkface to take in the ruination that had been their face. “There’s nothing they can do about the scars… but you’ll get a new eye. Cybernetic. Latest Charon Industries tech…” He trailed off as Sharkface grinned. “Shark?”

“And here I thought that Sharkface would only ever refer to my helmet… Can I pick the color for this new eye of mine?”

Reis swallowed, reminding himself that their pyrotechnical expert was, after all, full of surprises. He should have guessed they’d be okay with (hell, downright excited about) these physical changes. “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

“Black on black, then. Black iris, black… what’s it called, sclera? That thing. I’m Sharkface, after all… Better look the part.”

* * *

 

They looked around the room slowly, the small crowd crammed tight in next to their bed. Sharkface grinned, waving off the concerned looks. “Guys, I’m _fine_.”

“Fine? Fine?! You almost died!” Devin threw his arms around them dramatically, squeezing hard enough to make them wince. Sheesh, for a beanpole… He sat up, smiling a little guiltily. “Sorry, sorry. Too tight.”

“You been hitting the gym with Marcus or something?” Sharkface wondered, reaching up to rub at the sutures on their left shoulder. The first of several surgeries to put their arm back together.

“Yeah, actually… Well, that and the T’s finally starting to make some physical changes.”

“Rock on.” They fist-bumped him lightly, looking at the rest of their team. Their family. “Okay, so, as long as no one else wants any hugs, uh… hey, guys.”

Naomi was close to their right side, one closed fist punching their arm gently. “You fucking asshole. We thought you were _dead_.”

“To be fair, I was for a few minutes.” They grinned, catching her hand on the second attempted punch and kissing her knuckles. “Easy does it, now. If you beat up someone in the hospital I’m pretty sure you go to jail.”

“Oh, ha, ha.” She stuck her nose up for a moment, but she was grinning. “Glad you’re still breathing, nerd.”

Their eyes tracked over the gathered people as conversation continued, taking in each of their faces. The twins, Andrew and Andrea, who had been on assignment in another sector when everything went down on Spiral, stood talking to Naomi at the right side of the bed. At the foot of the bed stood Marcus, one arm wrapped protectively around Devin’s shoulders, a few new scars on his face. Devin himself, beanpole pipsqueak sniper extraordinaire with his dark eyes locked on Sharkface solemnly, just barely visible over their raised left leg. Had to keep it steady and elevated while what was left of their bones knit onto the metal rod.

Slowly, they turned left, mentally cursing how long it took to make a cybernetic eye. Their gaze fell on Reis sprawled out in a chair a few paces away, tablet in his hand being tapped on gently. Work, work, work. More importantly, though, was the person who was missing.

“Naomi?” they asked softly, chatter dropping away as they spoke. “How’s Ellis?”

“He… well…”

Their fist clenched in the sheet. “Physical therapy, right…? For a new arm?” Ellis. Ellis had to be okay. Ellis _had to_ be okay.

“He’s in surgery right now,” Reis spoke up, putting his tablet aside and sliding the chair closer. “There were some problems with the nerve connections and dead tissue masses higher on his arm. Radiation burns.” He shook his head, reaching over and touching Sharkface’s left hand gently, the contact seen but barely felt. “They had to amputate up to his shoulder to bypass it. Right now they’re connecting the new arm. He should be okay to come by tomorrow.”

Their right fist clenched tighter, brows drawing together. The new scar tissue on their face tugged and ached, but it was a good ache. A good reminder. “Those _fucking_ Freelancers… The next time I see them, they’re as good as _dead_.”

Around the room the rest of the team nodded in agreement. Two of their own had been hurt. They wouldn’t just let it go.

 

 

> ###  **3. _Luna_**

Luna Recovery Facility was the best in the galaxy. No wonder Hargrove owned a chunk of it. Sharkface had been in moon gravity facility for physical therapy for almost a week, gross motor control tests every day. Stand, sit, walk, use their muscles and see if they needed any more surgery before beginning the real work. According to their physical therapist, they’d have fine motor control practice long before even beginning to rebuild muscle and function on their injuries. Their left hand remained a point of concern, numb spots near their thumb having the doctors fussing.

Sharkface sat back as they were given a break, rubbing their left shoulder slowly. Across the room, Ellis was working on his own gross motor control tests. His robot arm moved slowly but steadily, nerves causing the elbow joint to bend, the fingers to respond. There was no muscle to rebuild, just control to regain. He really would be out in weeks, rather than months. Lucky Ellis. And from the look of things, he hasn’t even having complications.

The door hissed open and a moment later Reis glided across the room, signalling the two of them over. Their team had gone back on assignment from the _Angel on My Shoulder_ , most of them back to Spiral to supervise troops guarding the clean up. Sharkface pushed up from their chair, joining Reis and Ellis near the center of the room. “What’s the word, boss?”

“We have what we need. Two weeks to rendezvous with our informant and then… then we can take Church down.” Reis wasn’t smiling, his eyes staying on Ellis. “Will you be ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

Reis turned his attention to Sharkface, frowning. “Hargrove says we have to move now before we miss our opportunity. With or without the entire team…”

“Hey, as long as you get what we need.” They shrugged lopsidedly, forcing a smile. “I’ll see you guys on the other side, I’m sure.”

After a moment of hesitation, Reis returned the smile. “We’ll get them, Shark. We’ll make them pay.”

“Just save one for me.”

* * *

 

Ellis left the recovery facility a week later. He was under orders to take another five days of rest, but the timetable was apparently moving faster than originally planned. The Freelancers had hit one of their more secretive locations, a scrap metal recycling facility. And while their informant had detracted from Freelancer and was with them, they still didn’t have everything they needed to take down Church. Armor with enhancements and AI ports wasn’t illegal. Even if the informant had all the information, she hadn’t been able to bring _proof_.

Sharkface sighed as they read their PDA, shaking it off. They had to get back out there. The team was drawing the Freelancers to Longshore, a much more public facility that would be too easy to resist. They’d see them coming and take them in. Had to.

Still, they wanted to be there, not sitting here in a recovery room, having paints and brushes laid out before them. “What is the point of this?”

“Art therapy is a low intensity way to work on your fine motor control.” The doctor nodded, laying out a canvas before them. “You can paint whatever you like, the key is to see how your control and pain are.”

“I can live with pain.”

“But you can’t fight with an unresponsive hand.” That smile never wavered, even when they glared.

“Fine,” Sharkface relented with a sigh, picking up one of the brushes and carefully selecting their paint. Obviously they should do something that showed they had plenty of fine motor control, plenty of function in their hand. They weren’t even left-handed.

Slowly, the brush worked over the canvas, the picture in their head beginning to take shape in paint. They spoke softly as they worked, not caring if the doctor was listening or not.

“This is Devin, our Sniper…” They murmured, adding extra paint lines to create the complex sniper rifle Devin used. “He’s… He’s pretty much the sweetest person in the galaxy, like… He cares _so_ much about his guys and you can tell they really look up to him…”

( _And on Longshore Agent North Dakota throws up a Hail Mary, trapping Devin and his squad in a remote Bubble Shield. Devin orders stand down, unsure what’s going to happen next, but for the first time in possibly forever someone on his squad ignores one of his orders. The man steps forward and fires a single gunshot at the shield from his pistol. The bullet ricochets inside, taking out the squad. Devin tries to duck it, tries to let it play out without being injured but it pierces his chest, punches through his heart and drops him to the ground with a soft groan._ )

Next up was Marcus, painted in with a protective arm wrapped around Devin’s shoulders. “Marcus and I actually knew each other before being assigned to this team… We were in basic together, would go to the gym together… He’s the strongest of us and…” They trailed off, concentrating on getting that musculature down on paper, their hand shaking slightly and blurring it. “Fuck.”

( _Agent Maine wastes no time in laying waste to the enemy, spurred on by Sigma’s comments. Once the jeep is disabled, his first target is Marcus, the soldier from the freeway. The one who shot him in the throat. It takes the sleeveless soldier a minute to get his bearings, stunned from the sight of a man he thought was dead more than anything else. He throws a punch, wincing as it’s caught, a small whine of pain leaving his throat as his arm is twisted and he’s forced to his knees. This isn’t good, Marcus knows it’s not good, and when Agent Maine’s fist draws back and connects solidly with his helmet he has time to see the display turn to static before glass shatters into his eyes and blinds him. The punch carries through, knocks his helmet completely off and he hits the ground with a sickly thud, his skull crushing inward against the pavement._ )

Sharkface painted the twins with broad strokes, trying to capture them on paper. They were nearly identical, wide shoulders and short-cropped hair dyed in a variety of colors. They chose carefully, giving Andrew a smile and Andrea a frown, the way the two had presented last time Sharkface had seen them. The pair worked together in perfect sync, support for the team, making sure that everyone made it out safe whenever possible. They were, in a way, Mom and Dad.

( _They stand guard now between the Freelancers and Reis, letting him and his informant get the information together. They’ve got them pinned down behind cover, three agents and a fourth with an axe in his chest that’s definitely down for the count. Sure, two had gotten by but Reis could handle them. Neither of them sees the agent in blue stand up, neither of them registers when he starts firing explosives at the crane that’s been set to automatically transport crates above them. None of that matters as long as no one gets past them, as long as they keep Reis and his informant safe. They don’t notice the crate plummeting at them until it’s too late, more fall then jump away. The crate follows them to the ground, thuds over them and there’s nothing left of them but an exploded spray paint can._ )

The doctor told them they could stop, but Sharkface refused. Leaving their team half finished? Not a chance. They take a short break, however, flex their fingers and press through the pain to continue painting. Naomi. Naomi with her bright blonde hair and easy grin and the knife she was more than ready to put to someone’s throat. “She’s a badass, completely. Worked her way up from nothing to leading a squad. People like to give her shit because they’re stupid and have a death wish.”

( _Agent Carolina’s assault doesn’t let up, her speed and strength keeping Naomi on her toes. She’s holding her own against the aqua Freelancer, she thinks, and Ellis is nearby, keeping the big guy that took out Marcus off her back, so that’s a plus. But the attacks are just endless, strung together one after the other and she can’t keep up. Supposedly the Freelancers have physical enhancements, not just experimental armor mods, and she can believe it. Why wouldn’t Church add genetic mutation to his long list of crimes? Naomi hits the ground and skids, her helmet falling off, just barely managing to catch herself from falling over the ledge and into the water below. No, worse, onto the pavement below. She looks up again, sighing in relief to see Ellis’ new robotic arm, grasping it and letting him pull her up. Except it’s not Ellis, it’s that big guy in the white armor that yanks her upwards, high enough to toss her off the rig. Naomi’s back hits the ledge and she feels the crack, feels her legs go numb before she’s under the water and unable to get herself back up._ )

They took another break after Naomi, wanting to get their next recreation just right. Ellis. Their best friend, main dude, wingman. Ellis who cheered them on through physical therapy for those first two weeks, always grinning and bragging about picking up chicks--literally--with his robot arm. “That’s the thing about Ellis…” they said, picking up their paintbrush again and dipping it into bright silver paint, “nothing ever gets him down. Nothing.”

( _The big guy from the freeway is a force to be reckoned with. Two-on-one he’s pretty sure that he and Naomi can take out the one in aqua, but when the big guy comes in and slams him into the ground, that assurance changes. Ellis does what he can to keep Agent Maine off of Naomi’s back, let her take on Agent Carolina alone, she can hold her own. His new robotic arm is making up ground, able to catch and return a grenade from the Brute Shot. It doesn’t fare so well against the weapon’s blade, however, when it comes spinning out of the smoke. And Ellis doesn’t fare so well against multiple shots from the thing, jumping back to avoid the explosions. He’s precariously close to the edge when Agent Maine comes out of the smoke like a train and slams into him, sending him out into the depths._ )

It hurt, every movement of their arm sent pain bolting right up to their skull, but they pressed on. There was only one person left, anyways. Reis, the team leader, the man with the plan… The man that taught them the definition of ‘no one gets left behind.’ Reis would never abandon his team, never give up hope in them. They knew it first hand, blurred memories of Reis’ concerned face over them on a ride to medical, Reis saying that they died for a minute but he still didn’t _leave_ them. Reis was the glue that held the whole team together and made them a family.

( _Reis leaves._ )

* * *

 

“No.”

They look from the tablet in their hands to the man in front of them, slowly closing their fist around it until the screen cracks. A jagged line rips through the information on it, blurring it slightly.

“No. They can’t… they can’t all be… they _can’t_ be… Get out!” They throw the tablet across the room, childish but the only thing they can destroy that won’t get them sent to prison. The man who brought the news leaves without a word, leaving the broken electronic in the corner.

Sharkface can feel their chest tightening, air no longer entering their lungs. They want to scream, to destroy, to ruin the world that took their family from them. In the corner, the screen is still glowing faintly, information they know will always be burned into the back of their mind.

 _Andrea Ryce:_ **_K.I.A._ **

_Andrew Ryce:_ **_K.I.A._ **

_Marcus Shang:_ **_K.I.A._ **

_Devin Lee:_ **_K.I.A._ **

_Naomi Hart:_ **_K.I.A._ **

_Ellis Wilson:_ **_K.I.A._ **

_Reis Martin:_ **_M.I.A._ **

That was how they lost their team. That was how they lost their family.


	2. Journey

_ 千里之行，始於足下 _

 -  _ _老子__

* * *

 

> ###  **i. 0**

Six months. Six months in Luna Recovery Facility to regain the ability to walk.

Twelve months for full leg function.

Eighteen months for their arm to heal.

Two solid years in physical therapy before they were deemed well enough to leave.

At month six, Sharkface received medical discharge papers from the UNSC and a Medal of Service.

At month twenty-four, they received medical discharge papers from Charon Industries and a retirement compensation.

They weren’t offered counselling.

It probably wouldn’t have helped.

> ###  **ii. 0**

They returned to Spiral to find that their apartment had been emptied, their items moved into storage at some point in the last two years. Sharkface didn’t particularly care about the  _ stuff _ there, it was rarely used between jobs. They cared about the memories, about hanging out on leave and drinking and telling the same stupid jokes over and over. About playing video games and falling asleep on the couch and surprising the pizza delivery person with spontaneous singing. They cared about the frankly absurd number of shark-themed items that were gifted to them by their team.

They went through the storage unit, looked over everything carefully before taking one item with them, folding it and carefully sticking it into their pocket. The rest of the stuff they signed over to the woman behind the counter, seeing in her eyes that their attempt at an easy grin was just unsettling. Maybe it was the scarring. Maybe it wasn’t.

Charon Industries was still rebuilding their facility, still recollecting the trophy room. Sharkface doubted that they cared much about the research happening there, it was probably backed up in seven or eight other places. And as soon as the alarm had tripped all non-security personnel had been evacuated. As if Hargrove couldn’t just buy another set of brilliant minds. He’d bought another team of security.

They spent a long time watching the construction, the smog-yellow sky overhead darkening to brown twilight before they finally left. Charon was the past and somehow they were supposed to move to the future. The retirement stipend would last them nearly thirty years, according to the financial advisor that had brought it in. Assuming they lived wisely.

Assuming they lived at all.

> ###  **iii. 0 0 0 0**

The bar. Drinks that were cheap and strong and let their anger simmer inside them, slow roasted in cheap whiskey and cheaper company.

The alley. Aggression taken out in the wrong direction, a fight picked with someone who never stood a chance of being anything but a bloodstain.

The station. Police questioning, fingerprinting, charges brought up. Bail money that ate into their retirement funds. 

The streets. Wandering from bar to bar and city to city until they forgot what their name was. They never forgot what their pain was.

> ###  **iv. 1**

“... _ light frigate ship  _ Mother of Invention _ has been reported missing, possibly crashed. The vessel is home to the UNSC’s sub-group known as Project Freelancer, an organization that has come under recent fire from-- _ ”

They sat up, eyes narrowed, focused on the television as it showed an image of the missing ship. The  _ Mother of Invention _ ? Project Freelancer? It couldn’t be…

Sharkface clenched their fist, slamming it into their thigh briefly. That was right. The Freelancers. The bastards who had taken away their family. They had to find them. Had to kill them. It was only right, only  _ fair _ .

“... _ was last spotted on the radar of a small outpost known as Sidewinder on the planet _ \--”

They shut the TV off, standing and stretching, already gathering their gear. Sidewinder? They could be there in two days.

They could smell blood in the water; it was time to go hunting.


	3. Quarry

人的敵人不是惡魔，而是人類自己一樣.

\- 老子

* * *

 

> ###  **i. York**

Longshore.

The shipping business that was there had shut down sometime in the last two years, though most of the equipment remained. They walked among it slowly, steps unsteady, breathing harsh. This was where it happened. This was where they were. If they closed their eyes, they could almost feel the others.

Sharkface moved to the top level of the building, strolling along catwalks with their gun at their side. Their “new” armor was patchwork at best, stained with blood and torn in places. Whoever had had it before had probably died in it, but that wasn’t their problem. Hell, that was their advantage.

They rounded a corner slowly, eyes on the ground. There were stains here, layered over years and years of use, but… there were fresher stains, too. Redder stains. They looked like… Sharkface crouched, touching the smear lightly, spreading it beneath their fingers. Blood, tacky and almost dried but still fresh. Mere hours old.

Slowly, their gaze followed the blood, breath cutting off as they saw him. One of the Freelancers, shining gold armor slightly tarnished with time. They raised their handgun, approaching as quietly as possible, though they were fairly certain that it was only a corpse.

The green-lit hologram that popped up startled them almost into pulling the trigger, steps faltering. “What the…”

“Hello, I am Delta. Are you with Recovery?”

“With what…?”

“Your unfamiliarity suggests that you are not with Recovery. I would advise you to leave. Recovery will be arriving in response to York’s distress beacon soon.” The hologram flickered briefly and Sharkface grit their teeth.

“You’re with Freelancer… one of their AIs.”

“Affirmative.”

The next several seconds were a blur, shot after shot ringing out from their handgun, the bullets passing through the hologram of the AI and punching into the cinderblock wall behind it. Cement chipped and flew, clattering against the golden armor slumped on the ground. When the slide on their pistol locked, signifying an empty magazine, they charged forward and kicked the corpse instead. The hologram dimmed for a moment before reappearing.

Sharkface fell to their knees, breathing hard, eyes still on the body. The Freelancers. This had been one of them, one of the killers that took their family. They shoved away from it abruptly, falling back and sitting on the ground. “I was supposed to kill you... For them.”

A gull called out somewhere closer to the water, snapping them back to reality. Sharkface grit their teeth together, reloading their handgun and holstering it. They turned to the AI, frowning. “What happened?”

“Agent York was fatally shot by Agent Wyoming during a firefight. As is protocol, a Recovery Agent will be arriving in response to his beacon.” Delta flickered slightly. “To dispose of evidence lest it fall into the hands of enemy forces.”

“Enemy forces… What sort of evidence?” they asked, looking the armor up and down. Aside from the shining gold color (wasn’t this guy supposed to be their stealth specialist? That was what Reis had said), it looked like standard armor.

“Experimental enhancements as well as artificial intelligence units.”

“Uh-huh… So who’s coming to dispose of the evidence?”

“As I said, a Recovery Agent.” Could a hologram sound impatient? This one sure did.

“One of the Freelancers?” They could wait it out, camp out and take on whatever Freelancer showed up.

“That I do not know. Recovery protocols are not in my memory banks.” Another flicker from the hologram. Thing seemed broken.

“So it could be a Freelancer… but it might not.”

“It is unlikely that an active Freelancer will be sent in for Recovery.” Fuzzed edges around the green light. Sharkface stared for another moment, before standing up.

“No reason to stay here, then. That’s one dead Freelancer and… seven to go? I think seven.”

> ###  **ii. North**

Getting radio frequencies, even classified ones, even ‘ _ nonexistent _ ’ ones, was easy. Apparently. According to the hacker they had hired to get them into the Freelancer Recovery frequencies, it was simple.

“Recovery Two, this is Command, what is your position, over.”

Static.

“Recovery Two. This is Command. What is your position. Over.” More forceful this time. Direct orders. Do not disobey.

“Pinned down, Maine… whatever thing took over Maine has us trapped--” static “--shit, shit North! North get down!”

Explosions and under their feet the ground shook. They were close. They were very, very close.

“Command to Recovery Two, can you retrieve the Bubble Shield and Theta AI unit? Over.”

“Retrieve…? He’s bleeding out in front of me, that  _ monster _ you turned Maine into is still out there somewhere and you’re worried about the fu--oh… oh, shit… Look, look, Maine. I know you can hear me, Maine. Take the shield and take the AI, but don’t hurt him, he’s already dying so don--Maine!”

They moved quietly along the cliffside, gun raised. Just in case whatever Agents North and South Dakota had been fighting came after them. Sounded like Agent Maine. Boy, they’d love to get their hands on the big guy, too, see how he liked a few more bullets to the throat… but it seemed like Agent Maine might have already been out of their grasp.

The next corner Sharkface rounded brought them almost into the middle of the fight, two forms in purple and something that shimmered out of visibility a second after they laid eyes on it. They fell back a pace, watching the scene unfold. Darker purple was on the ground, blood flowing freely from the chunk of armor that had been ripped off in the explosion they’d heard. That must have been North. Lighter purple--South, they guessed--was over him, pistol whipping around, trying to cover all directions at once. They waited for the big guy to show up again, hoping that if he left it wouldn’t be by the path they were on.

“Recovery Two, this is Command. Status report. Over.”

They could hear South’s shaky breath on their comms, but when she spoke she was calm. Clinical. “Agent North Dakota has been terminated. Bubble Shield and AI Theta are in the hands of the Meta. Over.”

Six to go, one in their sights. Sharkface raised their gun, squinting down their right eye and letting the prosthetic eye’s superior vision line up their shot.

“Command, this is Recovery One, intercepting a distress beacon. Over.”

“Roger that, Recovery One. Be on your guard, there are possible hostiles down there. Over.”

Another voice? They lowered their gun slightly, trying to place it. Was that…?

‘ _ It bounces? Who makes a gun that bounces?! _ ’

The other soldier from the trophy room, the one in gray and yellow. Sharkface grinned, moving back along the rocks. They’d let this play out. Two birds with one stone. If they could get Agent Washington  _ and _ Agent South Dakota, well... That would just make their day.

> ###  **iii. South**

The Freelancers--and they  _ were _ Freelancers, no matter what they said on the comms about “recovery”--moved fast. Sharkface had to strive to keep up, the years away from active duty building on them. They kept back far enough to be unnoticed, kept their ears tuned to the hacked comms channels. It seemed that they weren’t the only one hunting these assholes down with murder on the agenda. Good. As long as some were left for them.

They’d had a moment, a near miss of blowing their cover when the one in gray and yellow--Agent Washington--had put a gun to the head of the one in purple and green, Agent South Dakota. To watch a Freelancer be killed right in front of them and not be a part of it would be unforgivable. It’d been a fake out, words said that they couldn’t quite follow. They didn’t have all the information, but they supposed they had enough.

Get one of them alone, that was the goal. They were Freelancers, the rumor was they’d torn their own organization apart, the deeper rumor was Recovery was just a facade to clean up the mess. They’d turn their backs to each other and walk away and they’d go after one of them.

Sharkface kept the Freelancers in their sights, staying low, their comms tuned in to the close-range channel. Agent South was quiet, gunshots ringing out in controlled bursts as she practiced. Agent Washington, however, seemed to be talking to someone… Another familiar voice. Delta, if they’d heard right… The AI from the shining pillar of gold formerly known as Agent York, the infiltration expert.

Whatever else was hunting down the Freelancers, it was only helping cover their tracks. There was plenty of paranoid talk about being followed, about something hunting them down… but none of it seemed to reference them. They settled their sights on Agent South Dakota’s faceplate, finger slipping inside the trigger guard. Now was the opportunity, they’d get one of them and hunt down the other…

The shot that rang out was not from their gun. They watched the rocket sail overhead, cursing under their breath and putting their rifle away, backing up from the impending firefight. Whatever was here hadn’t pinged on their radar, useless fucking thing. They had no visual, just had to hope they didn’t cross paths with it. This had to be the thing that was hunting down and killing Freelancers. The thing that was taking their AI and enhancements.

They turned to run, nearly crashing directly into it. Sharkface’s eyes widened, their jaw clenching.

Agent Maine.

They couldn’t stay and fight, not when it had the drop on them, not when it turned to them and issued a low growl into their comms. This was not a fight they would win. More gunshots rang out, a shout from Agent Washington, and the thing in the patchwork white armor turned away. That wasn’t a man anymore, they were sure of it. 

That was a walking nightmare.

Sharkface retreated, at least temporarily. No matter the outcome of the battle, there would be at least one less Freelancer in the world. If there were any survivors, they’d give chase. And if not, they’d find another target.

> ###  **iv. Wash**

He was definitely dead.

That made five left. Sharkface stood over the body of Agent Washington, gun pointed at the still form just in case. Agent Maine had taken something before giving chase, they’d seen that much, but judging by the puddle of blood, Agent Washington was surely dead. Surely.

His helmet was loose, a bare whisper of skin visible on his neck. They stared at that skin, entranced, a sudden though completely overtaking their mind. This was a human being. This had been a person with friends and family and a future--their enemy wasn’t faceless soldiers but  _ people _ . And these same  _ people _ had cut down their family like paper targets.

For just a moment, they wavered in their mission. They were intent on killing Freelancers, but the Freelancers were killing each other just as quickly. And what would it do? Give them back their family? Not a chance in hell. There was nothing left to fight for, no one left to protect. There was just their dwindling pension and growing police record.

Agent Washington groaned and they almost shot him on instinct. He reached up, securing his helmet on his head and slowly getting his arms and legs under him. When the man that definitely should have been dead stood up again, Sharkface had run.

* * *

 

They spent long days walking, not sure where they were going, not sure what, if anything, they were hoping to find. Answers? That would only be useful if they knew what questions they were asking. 

What had made them hesitate? The question finally came to them and they stopped, looking up at the clear blue sky. They had never hesitated in the face of the enemy before.

But they’d never been face to face with an enemy, their mind whispered. It was always armor, reflective plating and standardized shielding keeping any sort of human nature out. Sure, there were custom helmets and armor colors and people of different sizes, but it was all the same. The enemy was just another suit of armor.

Was that all they were to the Freelancers? Not people, but faceless, nameless armor? Was their family just seen as an enemy in a war? That had to be the answer, but…

“But they were my  _ family _ ,” they whispered, fists clenching. That made it different. That made it personal.

That justified their actions and nothing would convince them otherwise.

They had lost count of how many Freelancers were left alive, had lost their contacts and their inside information. If they wanted to find them, if they wanted to avenge their family, they would have to start over from the beginning.

And to reach the beginning they’d have to go to a base in the snow called Sidewinder, where the Freelancer ship had crashed. They’d find their answers starting there.

The questions didn’t matter nearly as much.

> ###  **v. Maine**

This was not a person. Not anymore.

Whatever Agent Maine had become, whatever the Meta was, it was dying. They could see it down in the icy depths of the water, still attached to the tow cable from the jeep. For a short time there had been a struggle, a fight for life against the freezing waters. That struggle was over, and though air still bubbled up on occasion, whatever had inhabited the suit of armor was dead.

Disgusting.

They turned away from it, from the shell of armor that had at one time been Agent Maine. Marcus had shot him in the throat and in return he’d ruined them. Marcus, Naomi, and Ellis, all victims of Agent Maine. Who had become a victim of… What, exactly? The Sigma AI? Project Freelancer? Something larger?

Sharkface climbed the cliffside, grunting with the effort. They hauled themself up and over the edge, rolling to their feet and reaching for their gun, just in case.

“Stand down!”

There was a gun in their face, two soldiers closing in on them and for just a moment, they almost fought. Almost. Fighting was what they did, fighting was who they were. They had spent their entire life from Luna to now waiting for the opportunity to fight.

Except these soldiers wore standard issue gray and further back they could see a familiar ship, a familiar logo.

These weren’t Freelancers, they were Charon Industries and for that reason, Sharkface dropped their weapons and held up their hands.

* * *

 

The official charges were ‘conspiracy against the government’ because too many things had piled up too fast and with no one from Freelancer left to take the fall, the press wanted to eat someone alive. They were thrown to the sharks and left to sink or swim on their own. The outside world saw them fall for it, but they saw themself adapt to the situation.

They’d get a death sentence and be free of it.


	4. War

知彼知己，百戰不殆；不知彼而知己，一勝一負；不知彼，不知己，每戰必殆

孫子

* * *

 

> ###  **i. Tartarus**

“In Ancient Greek mythology,  _ Tartarus _ was the dungeon used to torment the wicked, below even Hades.”

Morning again. They opened their eyes, sat up on their narrow bunk.

“In  _ Tartarus _ it was decided which souls were just and which were wicked.”

Breakfast delivered and eaten.

“And the wicked faced their divine punishments.”

Short term freedom, a walk from their cell to the showers, four guards with guns keeping them in check every step of the way.

“This… is not Ancient Greece.”

Back to the cell, the isolation, the endless stretch of time moving through space.

“This ship is not a judgement of your wickedness, for you have already been judged.”

Their wickedness… The loss of their friends, the quest for revenge. Were those things wicked? The people that had taken away their only family were the ones that deserved punishment.

“And this is also not the site of punishment… That will come when we reach Phobos.”

They were a long way from any sort of destination. A prison transport ship run by a skeleton crew, out in the middle of nowhere, edge of civilized space… 

“We will reach Phobos in six hundred and twenty-three days.”

There was no long range communication. If anything about their sentencing changed, they wouldn’t know until they reached the Sol system. Their lawyer had said that the ship would refuel at Earth, as if a glance through bars at a planet they’d never been to would somehow comfort them.

Ellis was from Earth. Mexico. He talked a lot about traditions back home.

Sharkface decided against looking out the barred window. Earth was Ellis’ story. They had been born on Spiral under a polluted yellow sky, with no concept of oceans or trees or amazingly colorful festivals.

The ship creaked and crawled through space, a vessel full of ghosts run by a skeleton crew. 

> ###  **ii. Felix**

They could feel something different in the air. Lack of morning announcement, lack of breakfast… They weren’t the only one. Prisoners all over the ship were restless, calling out to the patrolling crew. Catcalls and taunts echoed in the wide chambers and the few guards they could see were shifting, nervous. 

Sharkface smiled.

The currents had shifted and they were ready to go with the new flow.

“Hey Stasney! Comin’ down to offer some conjugal comforts?!” Someone shouted near them and they glanced to the side, spotting the guard walking down the middle of the wide aisles.

“Yeah, yeah, shut yer hole…” Stasney muttered back, his gaze never wavering from in front of him, stride never pausing. He was young, newer on the job, and the lack of return jabs gave away his nervousness. Sharkface took a step closer to the bars of their cell, craning their neck to see where Stasney was going. Downstairs… Damn.

The alarm of the airlock opening blared out briefly, hissing mechanics just barely audible over the hoots and hollers of the prisoners. They waited. This wasn’t a scheduled pick up, which meant…

No gunshots. Whoever it was seemed to be welcome. After a minute or two word started to whisper from cell to cell. A single man on a broken Pelican who had been stranded in deep space when some sort of disaster struck. Stasney walked the man back to the deck of the ship, not passing Sharkface’s cell along the way.

Changing currents indeed.

The alarm blared out minutes later, lights shifting to red. This time they heard gunshots, but it was too late. Even over the yelling of the prisoners, they could hear approaching footsteps. Screaming guards. And not too far away, the solid  _ crack _ of breaking bones.

The lights went back to regular but the uproar continued, prisoners shaking their cell bars, yelling demands to know what was happening. Sharkface stood near the bars, waiting. They’d have the answers soon enough.

“Quiet.” Slowly the din died down. Sharkface craned their neck, but they couldn’t see anything from their cell. “As of this moment, we are the new crew of this ship.”

“Well, who the hell are you?!” That was Conner, they were pretty much. Three cells down, in for attempted equipment sabotage. Word in prison really did spread, even just on a transport ship.

“Listen up!” New voice. “We’re looking for soldiers who aren’t afraid of killing lots of people, for lots of money… We don’t care who you are and we don’t care what you’ve done, because quite frankly, we’ve probably done a  _ hell _ of a lot worse. All we want are men who can follow orders and hold their own on the battlefield. We’re goin’ to war, folks!”

War. Like this overdramatic asshole knew anything about war… but they couldn’t quite tune him out.

“Now, our enemies are weak… but there’s a lot of them… and they got a couple of badass Freelancer agents on their side…”

The rest of the words weren’t important. As soon as that voice said Freelancer, they were on board. There couldn’t be many left… Washington, South Dakota… Most of the rest were confirmed killed. Their fingers curled around the bars of their cell, eyes gleaming. This was their  _ chance _ .

“But!  _ If _ you survive, you’ll be rich enough to live out the rest of your lives as free men…” More whispers from the cells, not hushed this time. “Now, if this totally awesome idea doesn’t sound like your kinda job, we’ll let ya off the ship--” The Purge. They gripped their cell a little tighter. “--but if you’re ready to fight for your freedom, then please… Firmly grasp the bars of your cell in a sign of solidarity…” This guy really loved the sound of his own voice. Sharkface’s hands tightened on the bars just in case. They knew what a purge would do. 

Seconds later, the airlocks opened at the back of the cells. Screaming filled the room as the pressure differential sucked out those not holding the bars of their cells firmly enough, as well as stray papers and the air. Fifteen seconds later, the airlocks slid shut again, leaving those left trembling against the bars and gasping for breath.

“Congratulations.” First voice again. “You’re hired.”

Sharkface stepped back, their grin widening. The currents had changed… A new smell of blood in the water.

Freelancers.

* * *

 

Felix was the one who liked to hear himself talk. Locus was the other. They could work with this.

The man who brought them to the attention of the mercenaries was Aiden Price, a short, slim man who had apparently outsmarted the Purge tactic. Sharkface didn’t know anything else about him. Not that they particularly cared. 

“So here’s the deal… Sharkface, really? Fucking Sharkface? Why does no one have a normal fucking name anymore? What happened to names like Joe or Bob or Sam--”

“Felix.”

“Whatever, whatever. Sharkface--god, I  _ cannot _ take you seriously saying that and looking at your tattoos, at least put a fucking shirt on--”

“ _ Felix _ .”

“Locus, I am  _ trying _ here, okay? Give me a minute and get them a shirt. Please? Thank you? You’re welcome?”

Locus turned to Sharkface, shaking his head slightly. “There are a couple of Freelancers getting in the way of this job and we’ve been… informed that you might be interested in the job of eliminating them.”

They’d been silent while Felix and Locus spoke, but their grin had been growing. Now it stretched and pulled the scars on their face, their lidless prosthetic eye wide and staring even as their other eye squinted down to a mere slit. “I’m quite interested in the job.”

“There’s a paycheck in it for you, of course. And the freedom to just walk away after everything is done. Assuming you complete your job.” Locus’ voice was steady, clearly unaffected by the way they were grinning.

“I don’t need money for this.”

Felix and Locus exchanged a look, before Felix shrugged. “Okay, you’ve got the job. Now find some armor and be ready to deploy when we need you.”

> ###  **iii. Carolina**

Agent Carolina.

She was right there, in their sights, the one who ruined their life… The one who held the blame for everything they’d endured in the last years. She was the soldier in the trophy room. She was at Longshore. And she dared to be here, to try to move on from what she’d done to them.

To their family.

Orders were to ensure death, orders were to corner and kill. And they’d remove her back up, then go in when the shield was down. Even if they didn’t kill her here, they’d slow her down long enough to let Felix and Locus finish their side of the job.

“As soon as their shields fall, open fire. Just leave the Freelancer alive for me,” they ordered, turning to walk away.

“You really think four people are enough to stop us?” That voice. That was  _ her _ . Their shoulders tensed for a moment, a grin stretching their face under their helmet as they turned back to her.

“You’re only safe as long as that shield is up, then you’ve got no cover and a failing AI. So, yeah, I do.” They could imagine the shock on her face, the quick whip of her attention to the AI at her shoulder. Relished it. “Besides, the rest of our guys are prepping for your friends at Alpha. I hope you said something meaningful the last time you saw them,” they added, turning away, “because you won’t be seeing them again.”

Said something meaningful. What had they last said to their own team? Varieties of “fuck off with your concern” and “I’ll be fine.” Orders to get the Freelancers. Were those words meaningful? Did the others think of those words in the seconds before death ripped them away?

They couldn’t linger on it. They had a job to finish.

* * *

 

On a remote mountaintop, isolated, snowy, they challenged her… and she underestimated them. Underestimated their ability to take pain and keep going, to live through anything that could be thrown at them. They should have been able to kill her there. Should have been able to outwit, outmaneuver, outgun. AI or not, they were  _ better _ than her.

> ###  **iv. Armonia**

In the city of Armonia, soldiers everywhere, people screaming and shooting, Sharkface underestimated Agent Carolina. Not her skills or her strength, not her connection with her AI or abilities with her armor.

They underestimated her guilt and through it, she proved that she was better than them.

“I’m sorry.”

It had to be hollow.

It had to be an attempt to get their guard down.

It just had to be.

They’d spent too long shouldering unspoken apologies. Too long reliving the way their world crumbled around them.  _ She _ didn’t understand guilt like  _ they _ did, this had to be a ruse.

So why did she sound so sincere?

“What?” Don’t let their guard down. Look for the trap. Behind them? Was she delaying for back up?

**“** I'm sorry for what we did to you... to your friends.” To their family. She didn’t even understand what she’d done. “You were on one side of the fight, and we were on the other. We thought we were the good guys. I'm sorry.” There were those words again. Like she actually  _ meant _ them. Like she’d spent who knows how long seeking death just to repent for what she’d done.

“I…” No, no! This was their revenge! This was their  _ chance _ ! It had to be a lie, it  _ had _ to be! Sharkface grit their teeth together, shaking off the momentary doubt her words had brought up. Centering the mental image of their team in their mind. “...don't care if you're sorry. Sorry doesn't change what you did. Sorry doesn't bring them back!”

“I know,” that sincerity again, that nagging feeling that she wasn’t just lying to bring their guard down, “but I'm offering you a choice. I don't want to fight you. Turn back now and you can walk away from this...alive.” 

Was it guilt? Was it a distraction? Was it even true? Could it be?

They’d watched from the sidelines as the Freelances ripped each other apart. Betrayed each other, shot each other in the back, left each other for dead. As they became inhuman nightmares and hollow shells of what were once people. Soldiers, yes, but still people. Had she been there? Had she seen it happen? Did she even  _ know _ what her team of ‘good guys’ had done to each other?!

There was no way she was sorry. No way any of them could feel something as human as guilt. Not after what Sharkface had watched them do to their enemy. Not after what Sharkface had watched them do to each other.

They thought of their team, of the smiles and laughter. Of the others making them promises to come home. Of their own promises, to kill every last Freelancer. Sharkface wouldn’t walk away from this,  _ couldn’t _ walk away from this. They had to honor their family. “Something's gotten into you… And I'm going to rip it out!”


	5. Finality

“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

\- Confucius?

* * *

 

 

> **i. Sharkface**

“Face it; it's over. You lose.”

Battered. Broken. Bleeding. The fight had taken more out of them than they’d thought they could give… and then it had kept going.

Sharkface stared down Agent Carolina, only vaguely away of Agent Washington (wasn’t he already dead? Were they seeing ghosts?) and someone else in their peripheral.

It couldn’t be over. They hadn’t… They hadn’t…

* * *

 

“What do you think of the name Mako?”

Above them, Ellis puffed a dry laugh. “Mako, huh? One, it’s Japanese, two it’s a diminutive, and three… It’s a type of shark. Nice try, nerd. Twenty-two.”

They lifted the bar again, grunting in effort. “Walking encyclopedia… Okay, so you think of something better. Twenty-three.”

“Easier said than done… I get it, I guess, wanting a name that suits you, but… I dunno, T. I’ve never had to _think_ about it before. Twenty-four.”

With a final sound of effort they lifted the bar, setting it up on the rests and sitting up. “Twenty-five. Fucking hell. Okay, so… I’m Chinese-descended, right?”

“According to the DNA tests, though who knows how long it’s been since your family was on Earth.” Ellis sat down as they stood, waiting for them to remove some of the weight from the bar.

Standing over to spot their partner as he started his reps, they frowned in thought. “And I want something that fits me… Ugh, this _is_ ridiculously difficult. But I’m never going by the name _they_ gave me again.”

“Why not Cheng?” A new voice offered and both of them jumped, looking to the far side of the room. They wracked their brain, glancing at Ellis and shrugging. The new guy rolled his eyes, stepping off the leg lift machine and over to them. “Marcus Shang, I’m on your squad.” Another set of blank looks exchanged between the pair at the bench. “The sleeveless guy?”

“ _Ohhhh_.” Ellis grinned, sticking out his hand. “I’m Ellis Wilson, the demo guy. This is T--well, for now--and they’re the--”

“The one with the shark face on their helmet?” Marcus offered, grinning and shaking his head. “You kind of stand out, Shark Attack.”

All three of them laughed, Ellis playfully nudging their ribs. “Hey, that’s an idea. Shark Attack. Fits you pretty well.”

“You’re a piece of shit. What’s ‘Cheng’ mean, though?”

“Depends on how you write it, really… Here, lemme show you.” Marcus pulled a datapad from his pocket, flipping through it and drawing on the screen quickly. “See, this one here means sincere or honest--which is also what Makoto means… And like _this_ it means, like… Done, but positively. Succeeded.” He passed the tablet over, letting them look between the two. “Of course, just written in English it’s just… Cheng.”

Something about that name. One not just chosen for themself, but introduced to them by someone… Someone on their squad. Someone in their crew. The casual way it had come up.

“I like it.”

“What, Cheng?” Ellis asked, leaning in to look at the two ways of writing. “Which version?”

“No. I mean, I do, but… I like Sharkface.”

Ellis stared at them, his face expressionless for several seconds. “Oh. My god.” He finally deadpanned, punching them hard in the arm. “You’re a fucking _nerd_.”

* * *

 

“Over? Nah. No. You can break me, burn me, bury me alive…” They couldn’t stand anymore and their helmet was static--or maybe that was their eye. Either way, it was smothering them. It had to come off. They had to keep fighting.

* * *

 

“You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“She says, right before collapsing.” They smiled as she half-heartedly swatted their arm, slipping it over her shoulders. “Naomi, get some rest. I’ll keep watch for him.”

“No… No, I’m fine. I’ll stay up until he gets home. You go get some rest.” Even as she protested, she curled into their chest, eyes trained on the door of the apartment.

“Can’t. Concussion, remember? Doctor’s orders are no sleep for tonight.” Sharkface glanced at the clock, biting their lip. And what a long night it was going to be…

The job was supposed to be a simple in and out, reacquire some cargo that had been ‘borrowed without permission,’ and do it quietly. They weren’t supposed to have this tech either, so the less eyes on the whole mess, the better.

It had been fine until an alarm had gone off. And then another. And then there had been people shooting at them and--

“I don’t _get_ it,” Naomi spoke up, as if she were reading their mind. “ _They’re_ the ones that stole it from _us_ , so why act like we were in the wrong?”

“Defending their right to be scumbags, I guess.” Sharkface shrugged, head tilting back on the couch. “I’m just glad I got the rest of you out before the bomb went off.”

“Yeah, real smooth, heroic sacrifice shit. Don’t you ever pull something like that again. Reis said he’s not hauling your dumbass out of the rubble next time.”

“We’ll see--” The door opening stopped their words, both of them sitting up as Reis walked in. “--about that. He’s the sentimental sort.”

“Talking about me?” The man in question asked, crossing the room and taking a seat on the couch with them. “First you break into my apartment, then you talk shit. Some family.”

“What’d Hargrove say?” Naomi asked, not even pretending to care that she’d been busted on another breaking and entering.

“That he’s surprised and disappointed his elite team would fail such an easy mission and if this keeps up we’re all getting fired.” He snorted, shaking his head. “Hargrove didn’t even show up, are you kidding? That other guy, Kowolski, debriefed me and offered the sentiment. Whatever, though.” He stretched out, staring at the two of them. “Shark, are you okay?”

“Minor concussion, no worries.”

“I’m not hauling you out of the rubble if you go playing big damn hero again.”

Naomi snorted. “Told you so.”

Sharkface laughed, leaning into the arm of the couch and regarding their team mates. “Hey, no one gets left behind, right?”

* * *

 

There was still a fight in them. Still a fight they had to win. A promise they had to keep. “As long as I'm still breathing it will never be over. I will hunt you. I will burn you!”

* * *

 

Rustling on the other side of the door. Someone trying to keep quiet--no, two someones, one shushing the other.

They dropped a hand to their gun as they unlocked the door, took a deep breath and stepped inside, ready to pull it out and start shooting if--

“Surprise!” Sharkface took a startled step back, staring at the small crowd in their living room. A banner hung above the threesome, paint still dripping from some of the letters. _Welcome Home_ it read in multi-colored spray paint.

“I… Guys? I’ve lived here for like, three months.” They stepped forward slowly, setting their things aside and letting Devin, Andrew, and Andrea each take a turn embracing them. “Why now?”

Devin smiled sheepishly, looking at the other two for some sort of support as he explained. “You mentioned that you finally finished unpacking, so… well, when I was a kid we moved around a lot and....”

Andrew took over, unable to keep a grin off his face. “Devin’s mom always said that they weren’t really in a home until the last box was unpacked…”

“And that didn’t always happen before he moved again,” Andrea added, arms wrapping around the shorter man.

“But when it did we’d always give ourselves a big welcome home party, so I wanted to do the same for you,” Devin finished up, his confidence in his idea back. “If you don’t like it, we can take the cake and leave--”

“There’s cake?”

All of them laughed at that, settling onto the newly purchased couches and passing out the small cake that had been bought earlier in the day.

It was good to be home.

* * *

 

“As long as _I’m alive_ , you're all as good as _dead_!” It was what they deserved, what every last Freelancer deserved for taking their family away from them.

There wasn’t even anything left in them to feel pain when Washington and Kimball opened fire.

* * *

 

“Sharkface…”

“No one gets left behind…”

“Welcome home…”

And the words they’d been longing to hear, the words that had so often evaded them.

“It doesn’t have to hurt anymore.”


End file.
